


World's End

by spangelbanger



Series: World's end [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brain Damage, Catatonia, Fratricide, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, POV Dean, anti-Dean, not like stubbed toe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 00:12:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5846362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spangelbanger/pseuds/spangelbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back away from this fic. I'm serious...this is probably the most horrific thing I've ever written and I wrote "Can't take you anywhere" and "It Doesn't Have to Hurt" </p><p>You want an actual Summary?<br/>Okay Canon Divergent from The Devil in the Details. Lucifer took Sam not Cas. This is after the world ends. When Lucifer drops Sam's body back off for Dean.It is Just a body. Sam's kind of not in there.<br/>Basically just a fic of Dean taking care of the body. Until he crosses a line and in some drunken grief stricken state ends up raping Sam, hoping for anything to get some kind of reaction from his brother.  Overcome with guilt or grief, or maybe both. Dean decides that maybe Sam really would be better off without him.  </p><p>There was a second half to this, I started writing...but I lost motivation for it at about 30k-ish into the story. So that part might never be finished. But this part is.<br/>You've been warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay I tagged this as ANTI-DEAN for a reason. Here's the reason. When I was debating on rewriting this. on changing what Dean did because it is so out of character. The voice of reason said, "Really? You don't think Dean would completely ignore what Sam would want in favor of possibly "fixing" him? You don't think Dean has done things to Sam's body he had no right to do?" This is more extreme. But you know...in a different way...maybe not.

The world had ended. Dean was standing outside a gas station in the middle of a town whose name he didn’t bother to read. Watching numbers roll up on the display. It didn’t matter, he ached with how unfair it was. The world and ended and no one cared. It was like they didn’t even know what had been sacrificed so they didn’t have to know it ended.  
It had though. Dean knew it. Somewhere beyond his ability to reach Sam was lost. Possessed by an angel that wouldn’t let him go. He held out faint hope that someday Sam would take back control, would kick Lucifer out the way he’d beaten Gadreel. Hoped beyond the shadow of reason that even though the world had ended it would start spinning again. He had to hope. Because if he couldn’t hope. There was nothing left for him. 

“Hello Dean,” A voice whispered behind him, so close o the right one, it made his skin crawl. 

“What do you want?” Dean whispered, “What else can you take from me?” He growled it out. 

“Take?” The angel laughed, “Dean, you misunderstand me, I’m here to give back.” 

Dean swallowed down the hope that started sparking in the back of his mind. Maybe the world hadn’t ended after all. “Please,” He whispered trying not to let the begging bleed into his voice but unable to stop it, “please, just give him back.” 

An icy hand ran over his arm, “are you sure you want him back? All the pain he’s caused you, all the trouble, are you sure you want him back?” 

“He’s my brother” Dean said, his voice breaking on the word. he meant to keep the emotion from the words, meant to sound strong and firm, but even to his own ears the words sounded like the desperate whine of a lost child. 

“Okay, just remember,” he leaned close, “you asked for this.” In a flash of white the angel blew out of Sam and tore through the gas station leaving a wave of death behind. Dean squeezed his eyes closed looking away not letting himself see the bodies falling in waves behind him. 

When the dust settled. Sam lay at his feet, Dean collapsed around him, “Sammy,” he whispered, “come on, wake up” he whispered, Sam lay unresponsive. Not moving, only the shallow breathing to tell him that he was still alive. He was okay, just unconscious. Dean told himself.  
The world had ended, and dean was left kneeling in the broken ruins clutching his broken brother close and begging for just one more miracle.  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

“Come on Sammy,” Dean whispered, his patience at the razor edge. He pressed a spoonful of oats past his brother’s lax lips, “just don’t fight me this time okay.” 

He caught the little bit that slipped back out of his mouth. His mind remembering a lifetime previously a messy baby that as much wanted to play with his food as eat it. Dean dropped the spoon into the bowl. He pushed away from the table, going to dig out the last almost empty whiskey bottle, he drank straight from the bottle not looking at his brother, not looking at what was left of him. 

Sam was broken, a dozen different doctors had seen him, a dozen different doctors were left scratching their heads, physically Sam was perfect. They couldn’t find anything wrong with him. It was like his body was there, but it was empty. Dean knew though, when they said they couldn’t find any evidence of the kind of injury that would cause Sam’s condition, knew they’d never find anything. 

Sometimes, if Dean didn’t look straight at him, he could pretend, that Sam was just being particularly quiet. Sometimes he could ignore the bulk of the wheel chair, ignore the way Sam’s eyes were forever focused on some far away point that only he could see. Dean could even ignore how still he was. The soft steady breathing the only sign that he was still alive. Today wasn’t one of those days. 

Dean tried to pretend most of the time, that he was handling it. That his broken brother’s body was just here, waiting on Sam to come back to life again, to fill that hollowed out cavern, and then it’d be like old times. They could get back on the road, pretend this particularly horrific detour never happened.  
Dean ignored it when he noticed the softness around his brother’s belly, ignored the slow wasting away of once dense muscle. He moved him, worked the muscles to keep them from locking up. 

He had worked with almost as many nurses and physical therapists as doctors, they gave him the sympathetic smiles, offered to refer him to support groups, tried to tell him the value of asking for help. And how important it was for someone in his situation. He laughed then, “there is no one else in my situation.” He’d said, they took it to mean that was the way he felt. He didn’t tell them the truth, didn’t tell him that his once brilliant brother was reduced to this because he’d given his life to save the world. They’d try to take Sam from him, think he was crazy. He’d kill anyone that laid a hand on Sam. 

The whiskey burned it’s way down him, soothing him in a way nothing did anymore, “let’s get you fed,” Dean whispered to the empty air, “you always were a fucking picky eater.” Dean muttered, “but this is ridiculous.” There was a list, stuck to the fridge with a magnet from a bank that said exactly what Sam could and more importantly couldn’t eat.  
Dean didn’t look at it anymore. He had it memorized, and he didn’t need the reminder. Not when he had Sam.

They had a schedule to keep. Not that it mattered, but it felt like it did. Sam wouldn’t notice if lunch was late, or if Dean bathed him in the morning instead of the afternoon. But for Dean it mattered. When he deviated from his schedule it hit him so much harder. How much he was missing, how big a chunk of his life was gone. 

He missed the way Sam had been every second, sometimes he thought it was worse when he was looking at him, seeing all the ways the empty body failed to be his brother. When he looked away though, when he could hear the soft sound of his breathing, when he waited for Sam to break the silence, and ask him if he wanted to talk about it Dean couldn’t bare it. Couldn’t handle the weight of knowing his brother was broken truly, completely, and finally broken. 

For a little while Dean had been stubborn, kept his brother dressed the way Sam would have dressed himself, ignored the way his jean’s bunched and failed to button, ignored the way he had to fight against his brother’s weight to get him dressed only to have to undress him again in a few hours. After the first few months, he gave up.  Some people would have said he finally accepted the way things were. At least that’s what one of the councilor’s had said when Dean broke down in her office later that week. When he finally gave up and dressed his brother in sweatpants and a t-shirt instead of blue jeans. That was the last time he went to her. 

There was another before her. The one that suggested kindly that Dean consider a long term care facility. 

The one before that, the one that suggested in home care,  Dean actually regretted leaving her. But when she suggested in home care, and started asking about Dean’s personal life, how he was doing, he had gotten pissed off, they were there to talk about Sam, not whether or not he was dating. She’d been nice, and sympathetic, but he was still raw, hurting and angry, and she’d been a little too much like Sam. In the way she was nothing like sam, brunette, dimpled smile, looking at him with the false sympathy that Sam had always been able to turn on with the family members of victims. That wasn’t what Dean was. He didn’t want to be looked at like that. He was just waiting for Sam to get better.  
“Miracles happen right?” He asked, rhetorically, Sam had already came back to him so many times, he’d do it again. Sam always came back. Sam would always come back to him, he just had to wait, give him time, he’d get it together. 

Of course Dean pulled every string he had. Cas had looked at him with a kind of hopelessness, Cas had been his one greatest hope, Cas had fixed Sam last time, the time that he had left his brother in one of those god forsaken facilities because the world was ending, and he had to stop it. 

“What do you want me to do Dean?” Cas asked softly his fingertips brushing the hair out of Sam’s eyes as he searched his face. Dean wondered what Cas saw when he looked at Sam now. 

“I want you to do your dream walk crap and go get my brother out of whatever corner of his mind he’s locked in.” Dean bit out cruely, “go do the mojo thing, and fix him.” 

“I can’t fix this.” Cas whispered, “Sam’s not locked in anywhere,” He said softly. 

“What the hell does that mean?” Dean said. 

“I’m sorry,” Cas whispered, and Dean could see it, see the tears rolling down the angel’s jaw, could see them collected on the sweep of his lashes, “I’m so sorry,” Dean didn’t pretend it was him Cas was talking to. 

Dean walked out, they’d still been living in the bunker at the time, He’d left Cas watching over his brother, made it as far as the parking lot before he’d called Crowley. 

“I’d love to fix your brother,” Crowley said, “even ignoring that he has a tendency to try to kill me, but I can’t.” His explanation didn’t matter, all the threats and coercion and screaming in the world didn’t change it. And the damn demon listened to it all. Whispered something that sounded too much like, “I wish I could” and it sounded a little too sincere. Dean threw the phone across the parking lot. 

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because there was no one Dean wanted to talk to. He went to find it anyways, it was the number he’d given Sam’s doctors, they might need to reach him, when Sam woke up. 

Sam was going to wake up. He just was.

That was almost a year ago. Now Dean held out hope, spent late into the early morning hours searching for anything that might be able to help. Phone calls and false hopes and more pots of coffee than was healthy and so far, he’d gotten nothing. He wasn’t any closer. Sam hadn’t given up on him. Not even after he’d tried to kill him. Dean wasn’t giving up, he just had to sleep sometimes. He wasn’t as young as he use to be, four hours a night was one thing on a hunt, but anymore, he was too old to keep pushing his body. 

Dean moved Sam from the kitchen to his bedroom, parking him in front of the tv leaving some crap comedy on the screen. It wasn’t like Sam cared, and Dean was nice enough to not turn it to porn. Even though it would serve him right. Might make him feel better to screw with his brother again, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.  
Sometimes he could pretend everything was fine. This wasn’t one of those times. 

Dean’s phone buzzed sometime later while he was in the library, back turned to the place Sam use to sit. With a groan he hit his head on his phone, “damn it.”  
There was one thing, one part of all of this that was harder to get used to, harder to accept this is what his life had become. Dean headed to the other side of the house, to the closet that held only Sam’s supplies. 

He got what he needed, ignored the stupid over sized plastic bag, the stupid white and green thing, the stupid way it crinkled too loudly in the quiet. He hated this part. Hated being the one to do it, but he wouldn’t let anyone else see Sam like this. Wouldn’t let anyone else touch his brother, not after he heard about the kinds of things people did, the kind of monsters people could be. 

He would never be comfortable with it, but he could ignore his own discomfort to protect his brother from the eyes, and hands of perverts that would take advantage of him. He never put it off, never told himself Sam could wait, even three quarters of a bottle of whiskey in him, he took care of Sam. Whatever Sam needed.  
“You gonna get off your ass and do this yourself this time?” Dean asked walking back into the room. Sam didn’t respond, “you’re one stubborn son of a bitch.” Dean muttered.

He lifted his brother onto the bed, the plastic bed liner crinkled under his weight. Dean made sure it was in the right position before he reached for the elastic waist band of his brother’s sweats, “this works better if you lift your hips.” Dean muttered, didn’t matter, if nothing else he’d learned the most effective way to strip a 160lb man. Not that the information would ever matter outside this situation. It was a weird thing to know. 

Sam lay impassive while Dean worked. Cleaned him carefully, made sure he was clean and dry and wasn’t chafing before he eased the clothes back on his brother, “Come on Sammy,” he muttered, “I can’t believe you’re just going to lie there, you realize the pranks I could pull on you right now? There’s not a damn thing you’d even do to stop me.” Dean whispered, his eyes watering despite himself, he wiped a hand over them and rested his hand on his brother’s thigh, pinching the sensitive spot there, Sam didn’t even flinch. Dean felt a surge of unexpected guilt he shouldn’t have done it, but it’d just been so damn easy. 

He didn’t bother with the sweats, he pulled a blanket over his brother’s legs and went back to the kitchen. The whiskey was gone. He’d have to make a run to the store. He checked his watch. He didn’t have time. But he was edging too close to sober for his own good, he needed to be drunk, he had been maintaining a pretty good buzz for about a solid two weeks. It was getting harder to keep. 

He pulled out his phone and hit the second speed dial. Cas answered immediately, “Supply run.” Dean said and hung up. It was minutes later when the angel appeared behind him. 

“What took you so long?” Dean asked checking the time on the phone again. 

“I’m sorry,” Cas said, “what do you need?”

“Stay with Sam.” Dean said, “I’ve got to go get some stuff.”

“Dean…”

Dean cut him off, “No Cas, I can’t do this, I’m not strong enough, I need the good stuff, and I’m out, so you stay with Sam”  
“and if you wreck your car because you’re drinking?” 

“Baby will be fine.” Dean said, “she’s tough, she’s been through more wrecks than you have.”

“And Sam? What happens to him, if something happens to you?” 

Dean shrugged, “You’ll watch out for him.” Dean said. 

“Alcohol causes liver damage.”

“Good thing I know an angel who can heal that, I mean that’s still what you guys do right? You heal people?” 

“Dean, Sam’s not just some random sick person, what happened to him.”

Dean’s hand clenched, he fought the urge to swing, but Cas didn’t back down. Cas Stared at Dean till his hand relaxed and he ran it through his too long hair. “You’ll look out for him, make sure he’s taken care of.” 

Cas apparently gave up, it wasn’t like they’d never had the conversation before. Cas was the only person Dean left alone with Sam. To him that said more than words ever would how much Cas meant to him.  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Dean was in the middle of changing his clothes the first time he saw some sign that there was still some spark of life in his brother. He flushed crimson, at the sight of his little brother’s swollen cock. “Jesus Christ Sam, warn a guy.”  
Sam was as silent as ever. 

“What the hell has your engine revving anyways?” Dean muttered, not sure how he was supposed to handle the situation, he opted to ignore it, and just do the job. He expected it to be more difficult with his brother hard while he was cleaning him up. Instead it gave him something to tease his brother about, and maybe it was a sign, a weird sign sure, but when had Sam ever been normal. So maybe if this part of him was reacting again, maybe the rest of him would to. Dean found a new cause for hope.

Dean turned on the computer, turned it on a random porn clip site and walked out of the room. He could still hear it in the hall, he leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes and tried to remember, the last time he’d caught his brother watching porn. He couldn’t remember, he had to assume it’d been somewhere on the road. Somewhere on that road trip that was never supposed to end but somehow had. 

It was easy to ignore the hunts, especially when he refused to even pick up a newspaper or open a web browser, for anything that wasn’t immediate and relevant. He took care of Sam, he drank himself stupid, he researched ways to bring his brother back. One job at a time, right now, Sam was his full time job. Dean went to make his brother’s dinner.    
He went back to the bedroom, found Sam still where he’d left him, staring unseeing at the wall beyond the tv. “What are you watching?” Dean asked to break the silence; He looked at the tv, “Yikes, that’s enough of that.” He muttered turning it off. “Come on baby, it’s time to eat.” 

Wrestling the dead weight of his brother back into the chair Dean figured he must have been imagining it. Nothing hard pressing against him, just his brother’s soft pliable body heavy in his arms, Maybe it had been just his own wishful thinking, The thought made him cringe a little at his own poor word choice. But it was true, if it he knew it was proof Sam was coming back to him, he might have even kissed it. To hell with anyone that would misconstrue his happiness at the thought of getting his brother back. 

Dean found himself talking to Sam while he fed him; ignoring the fact Sam was as unresponsive as always. “As soon as you’re on your feet again, we’re going to hit the road again, just you and me little brother. We’ll hit every strip club from Orlando to Seattle.” He smirked imagining the way Sam would roll his eyes at the idea, “swing down by Vegas, rake in enough cash to take a whole year off, then. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. Just me and you, no hunts, no anything, just me, you, baby, and the blacktop. I’ll even throw in a few museums on the strip club tour, but you have to tell me which ones you want to see, because I’m not a fucking nerd like you are.” The silence surrounded them, not as thick as it had been the day before. Dean waited for Sam to answer.

The one sided conversation didn’t seem to bother his brother. Dean still found himself wiping at his eyes. He’d thought he’d pretty much cried himself out. Apparently he was wrong.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the bad chapter. Skip it if it'll make you uncomfortable.

  
Dean was sick. He’d always known it, but now he knew it. Knew it the way he knew hell had a special place just for him. He wouldn’t even fight it. He knew what he deserved. He told himself it wasn’t his fault. The whiskey made him do it. It didn’t matter he’d still done it, Still let himself… he wrenched himself out of his own thoughts and ran to the bathroom, puking up what little was left in his stomach. It reeked of vomit and alcohol, bitter and strong and he fought against the rolling in his stomach, let himself sink down onto the cool tile floor and thought about his gun, still under his pillow, he could put an end to it, with one carefully placed finger twitch.  Cas would take care of Sam.  
Sam would be better off without him. After what he had done…

  
His stomach rolled again, but there was nothing left to throw up. He was out, he’d give blood if it’d just stop. If he could just stop knowing what he had done. No one else knew. Hell Sam didn’t even know. What would he say? The little brother he’d been, before the world ended. Not the body taking up space in the other bedroom.  
What would Sam say if he knew how sick Dean was. Knew what dean had done to him. The whiskey had made it seem like a good idea, in the moment, a mix of anger, and despair, and sick twisted vengeance, he’d wanted Sam to stop him, wanted to break through that thick silence, wanted to force him out, force him back, force some reaction. Sam had…

Dean’s stomach rolled again. Leaned over the porcelain bowl he was pretty sure he saw thick white streaks through the alcohol that had been in his stomach before. It was worse, he could taste it at the back of his throat, a taste he should never know, he gripped the white porcelain until his knuckles ached under the strain. He had to get up, had to go make sure Sam was okay, he had to call cas. Had to tell someone so they’d take Sam somewhere safe. Somewhere he’d be safe from Dean. 

It had been any other day, Dean had just worked the knots out of his brother’s muscles and had him stripped down to bath him, when he’d noticed Sam’s cock twitched. Dean hadn’t been thinking, he wrapped his hand around that soft length and squeezed, “Come on Sammy,” he whispered, “Show me you’re still in there.” Sam was supposed to stop him, supposed to tell him to cut it out, knock it off, kick him in the face, something. Sam didn’t. And Dean knew on some deep reasonable level it was because he couldn’t but Dean just couldn’t accept that answer.  

Dean’s brain shied away from what he’d done, from the way he’d stroked slowly watching his brother’s face for some reaction. His hand had moved without his permission, he’d been watching for some reaction. Feeling his brother’s cock swell and fill in his hand had been the closest thing to an interaction he’d gotten from his brother in over a year, it was like he was high, flying on untethered euphoria, he gave up quickly on seeing a reaction cross his brother’s face, instead he felt the subtle movement, the jerking twitch of the hard length in his hand. It was something, it was tangible, it was proof that Sam was still in there somewhere no matter what they said, the angels, and the demons, and the doctors, and everyone could go to hell, Dean knew his brother. He was going to get him back. 

Dean wasn’t sure exactly what happened, or how or, why the urge struck him. But one second he was admittedly stroking his brother’s cock, and the next he had his mouth wrapped around the tip of it, sucking hard trying to coax some sound from his brother. Sam was utterly silent and instead of making him stop it spurned him on. Dean threw in the best tricks he could think of, working it hard and fast, not stopping to think, just going with it, if he could get Sam there maybe, whatever spell he was under would lift, and Dean could get him back. 

It wasn’t hard to imagine the look that would be on his brother’s face. If it was just a stupid sex magic spell and it took him over a year to fucking break it. Sam would be pissed at him, But then, Dean had never claimed to be the brains of the family that was always Sam’s job. If he could just get him back. Dean would be fine with it if he was pissed off at him. 

Dean could imagine the look on his face, when Dean told him all the grisly details, how he couldn’t even feed himself, or wipe his own ass, but then that’s what he had Dean for, to make sure that he was always taken care of.  Dean had always and would always take care of his little brother.  He swallowed the spit that had filled his mouth, sucked down to the base of Sam's cock and swirled his tongue back up it. Licking into the slit even while he continued to suck. Sam was still silent, but Dean could taste the precum, knew he wasn’t as unaffected as he was pretending to be.

  
Dean pulled back, “Alright bitch, I got one more trick, but just remember, you asked for this one.” He whispered, his finger replaced Sam’s cock in his mouth. It was spit slick when he pulled it out of his mouth tracing a line over the rim of his ass, a part of his brother Dean was way more familiar with then he ever wanted to be. He pushed his finger in deep and quickly searching for the nub of nerves.  Dean’s mouth filled with the unfamiliar salt tinged taste of his brother’s cum. Dean swallowed quickly, the sheer amount of it surprised him, though it probably shouldn’t have. He looked up expecting to see the stupid fucked out smile on his brother’s face.

  
Sam was apparently unaffected. Dean’s world ended again. This time with the taste of his brother’s cum still coating the back of his tongue. 

Dean  found his despair in the bottom of the bottle, staring back out at him. He tried to drink the taste away, drink the memory to a fever dream instead of something he actually did. Even through the burn he could still taste it. The phantom weight of his brother’s cock seemed imprinted on his tongue. He wanted to forget, wash it away and let it be gone forever. He found himself sitting on the floor beside the bedroom door, watching the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Sam was sleeping, at least Dean thought he was. His eyes were closed. As long as they were closed Dean could pretend it had worked. That when he woke up, when those eyes opened, they’d be focused on him again, instead of staring unwavering at nothing. He’d give his soul all over again, just to have Sam look at him for even a second. He’d sell it in a heartbeat, to have his brother see him, and actually see him. 

Worse than his own sickness, the fact he even could do that was the nagging knowledge that even under his own disgust at himself, Dean didn’t regret trying. If it had worked, then he would have been right to do it. He’d do anything to save his brother from this living death. Anything would be worth it to bring him back.  
If Dean would sell his own soul to see Sam look at him, he’d throw the match and let the world burn just to hear his voice one more time. Just to hear him say his name would be worth it. 

The bottle was gone long before Sam’s eyes opened. It was really the only way Dean knew if he was awake or not, if his eyes were open Dean assumed he was awake, if they were closed, he was asleep. Though he didn’t think there was any difference between his asleep and awake. He just was. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

The buzz was still floating in his veins, Dean was watching Sam sleep, wishing he could believe that Sam was just sleeping. That in the morning he’d be up and running before Dean even made it to the coffee pot. So far that wish was 0 out of 483days. Somehow he figured it’d be the same tomorrow.

  
The empty whiskey bottle was left on the floor by the door. Dean stumbled to the kitchen and grabbed a second bottle, it didn’t matter, no one knew what he’d done. Not even Sam. He reached out and brushed his brother’s hair out of his eyes, felt the rough too long stubble along his jaw. It wasn’t quite to the point Dean would break down and drag out the razors.

No one cared if they weren’t clean shaven, he hated risking cutting his brother for something that had no real purpose. Dean had always been comfortable with a knife but any time Dean nicked him, he didn’t know until blood started flowing. It only served to remind him Sam wasn’t home anymore.

Dean decided he’d wait until he was more sober, wait until he didn’t think he might give in to the urge to take them both out of their misery.  
It was almost a month later when Dean felt the hard twitch against his hand while he was positioning his brother’s penis in the middle of dressing him. Dean closed his eyes, swallowed against the bile in his throat, and reminded himself again, Sam didn’t know. Sam didn’t know what his body was doing, didn’t know what Dean had done to him. Dean got his brother dressed quickly, ignoring the part of him trying to rationalize what he’d done. It wasn’t the kind of thing that could be rationalized away. He knew it, but some part of Sam reacting to him, was more than he’d had hope for in months.

He forced himself to ignore it, too sober to deal with the consequences. It was only later, when he’d fed and shaved his brother, and was staring in the blank face that had once held his entire world. Did he know the truth. He was going to do it again. He’d already molested his damaged, broken brother. If left on his own with him that desperate urge to get some kind of response, some kind of interaction was going to push him too far, was going to let him justify the inexcusable.

Sam was gone, Sam had been gone for a long time, and Dean was going through the motions of keeping his body alive, keeping it ready for him to come home to it. Sam wasn’t coming.  
Dean left his brother alone for the first time in a year. Left him sitting motionless beneath the blue light of the tv. He walked out to the bar that he’d passed a hundred times but never could stop in. It was the same as a million other bars he’d been to in his life, and the dim mood light and neon lit beer signs did nothing to improve his mood. He wanted a fight, wanted something to take it out on, or someone bigger than him that could hurt him that could deliver the kind of punishment he knew he deserved. He deserved hell. Deserved to be sent there, Deserved whatever he got. But he couldn’t pick that fight. Because no one was coming for Sam. No one even knew where they were. Dean had to make sure Sam was taken care of then he could deal with what he had done.  
With some guilt he slipped out the way he’d came in and went home.

“Sammy, I’m back.” He shouted opening the door. The silence was too thick, too suffocating; if something had happened to Sam while he was gone he’d never forgive himself. Sam was still where he’d left him. His eyes closed like he was sleeping again. Dean lifted his brother into the bed and stretched out next to him. Memorizing the plains of his face through the glare of the tears in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispered, pressing his lips against his brother’s forehead. “I’m so sorry,” he said again grabbing Sam’s hand and pressing a kiss against the palm. “I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to let you go before.” He pressed another kiss in the same spot, “I’m sorry I never got you a dog.” He kissed him again, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about mom when we were kids.” He recounted each sin with a kiss. Knowing his sins would never be forgiven. “I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you safe.” He whispered again, “I promised, and I tried, I really did, but I was never good enough, never strong enough.” He collapsed against his brother pulling him close tears dripping from his eyes into his hair. Finally he calmed enough he said softly, “I’m sorry for what I’m going to do to you.” Dean said, not yet having the courage to put words to the thought.

Dean ignored the schedule, when he felt like he could move again he bathed his brother, cut his hair. Trimmed it back to how long it’d been the last time Sam had been himself. Dean trimmed his nails, cleaned the nonexistent dirt out from beneath them and found himself marveling at how soft Sam’s skin had become since he stopped hunting.

The sun had barely risen when Dean was urging a thick breakfast down his brother’s throat. It wasn’t the healthiest meal, but he was feeling indulgent. He cleaned him up after, left his brother laying on the bed and went to the duffel that had been residing in the back of Dean’s closet.

He pulled it out and hesitated over the zipper. He hadn’t even looked in it, not since he had decided sweats and scrubs were the only way to go. The teeth separated easily and Dean’s throat closed up, the clothes still held the familiar smell of his brother, the way he had smelled before the world ended, back when he still talked, and laughed, and sang along with the radio, and went to the bathroom without Dean having to clean him up afterward. Dean dumped it all out on his bed. Sam had lost muscle but he was still a large guy. Dean picked what had once been his brother’s favorite jeans and a black t-shirt, soft and worn. He let his fingertips savor the feel. He grabbed the first shirt folded on top and dug down into the bottom of the bag.  
He went back to his brother’s room. He Ran a hand through his hair again, “alright Sammy, let’s get you dressed.” He said gently, “gonna let you wear your big boy underwear this time.” It didn’t sound as good out loud as it had in his head.

“Swear to god though, you mess up my car, and I’ll kill you.” The words rang hollow in his ears while he worked the uncooperative clothes onto his brother’s uncooperative body. For a minute Dean was speechless, it felt almost like he’d forgotten what his brother looked like and was rediscovering it. Dean got him into the chair, “Not bad bitch.” He whispered, ‘gonna have to beat the girls off you with a stick.”

Dean looked away out the window to the gray sky beyond, “yeah, I think I’m going to just quit talking now.” He said. “You chill here for a minute buddy; I have to go get the car ready for you.”  
When Dean eased Sam into the passenger seat the pad over the leather rustled loudly. “I’m sorry baby,” he said patting the dash, “it’s just for a little while.” Getting Sam into the car was a challenge, but once he was on the road, he turned the radio up as loud as it would go, smirking at his brother from the corner of his vision. For a little while he let himself forget, let himself enjoy the feel of his car humming beneath him, let the music take him back. He fought the urge to look at Sam, to let the illusion last a little longer.

Dean stopped once after about six hours, telling himself the mess he was cleaning was just spilled water, and the only reason Sam let him help him change clothes was he was too black out drunk to know the difference. Dean didn’t remember the last time Sam had a beer. He thought that maybe before their last pit stop he should change that. He just wanted to share one more drink for old time’s sake. What could it hurt really?

Sam wouldn’t mind, no one else would ever know. Dean pulled over when it started to get dark. Reached into the cooler and pulled out a beer. He didn’t bother trying to share it. It was too wet for Sam to swallow, the artificial thickener had been left behind, it didn’t matter. Dean dipped his finger into the rim of the bottle, tipped it up, and then pressed the digit between his brother’s lips. “Good isn’t it?” he asked,

They were parked next to a river, and Dean watched the silver moon light breaking over the rolling water. “I’d say we should go swimming, but I think you might float away,” Dean said to the silence, he sipped at the beer, all the words he’d never get to say again clogged up his throat. Finally he swallowed around that lump, “Sammy, I’m sorry. “ His eyes prickled with tears that he wiped away. He pulled him as close as he could, buried his face in his brother’s hair and let he cry. Let his tears soak into the soft cotton of Sam’s shirt.

“I know what you’d say right? Ask when I got turned into a girl probably, I just I can’t do this without you, and I can’t keep going, I’m gonna do it right this time, I’m going to make sure you’re safe, that you’re taken care of, that I can’t ever hurt you again.” Dean let his brother’s body fall lax across the seat, let his head fall into his lap, and pretended Sam was just sleeping, just another long drive, and another long hunt. It was good to pretend while he still could. He turned the radio up, made sure his brother was laying in what should be a semi comfortable position, and let the road take them where it would. One hand was relaxed on the wheel the other was stroking gently through his brother’s hair, scratching at his scalp and trailing back down this arm before going up and starting over again. It was late when the sign to a decent place to stay finally rose out of the night. Dean eased the car in close, close enough he could see it from the window while he got their room key, Not their normal, not at all, handicap accessible close to the front door. He got out the collapsible chair and eased his brother into it. The muscles in his neck were slightly knotted. If it hurt, Sam didn’t complain. He never did.

Dean rubbed the spot absentmindedly, while talking, whispering quietly that it was just going to be for the night. That they’d get something better tomorrow when another room opened up.  
Dean got his brother inside, turned on the tv, and turned the volume down low. He dug out the box of id cards. And found the only real one in there. Not a driver’s license or a credit card. Sam’s college id card. It doubled as a library card. Dean put everything else up, emptied Sam’s wallet of everything else and slipped the card inside.

“Getting tired Sammy?” Dean asked softly, when the crap tv had long since switched to an infomercial. “He eased his brother into the second bed, pulled the cover’s up over him.

‘Shh, just relax, I’ll put out the do not disturb sign. You can sleep in tomorrow if you want.” Dean was crying again, his voice didn’t waver, but he could feel the hot tears slipping from his eyes. The lies were coming to him easier now, like falling back into an old habit. Dean turned off the tv and pulled out a sharpie and a stack of papers. “Knew this crap would come in handy someday.” He whispered, drawing warding over the walls not caring about the charge to the credit card. It wouldn’t matter, not after tomorrow.

When the room was covered in wards, Dean sat down on his own bed and just watched Sam for just a few more minutes. He had something, something he’d picked at a truck stop in the middle of nowhere. He pulled out a syringe, and sat it on the nightstand. He pulled out his phone, and checked the charge, it would be long enough. “Shh, Sammy, just gonna give you something to help you sleep.” His heart thundered in his chest, everything in him screamed not to do it, not to go through with it, but the tip of the needle slipped into the swollen vein on his brother’s arm without resistance, and he pushed down on it as slowly as he could. He knew it probably hurt, probably burned going in. He knew this would be the point when it’d all be over, when Sam’s eyes would clear and the betrayal on his face would be the last thing Dean saw.

Nothing happened. The room was still and quiet as a tomb. Dean waited for the drug to start to work. He checked his brother’s pulse, waited three minutes, checked it again, when he felt the erratic off beat rhythm he started cleaning up the room, removing any trace that he’d ever been there. The last thing he did was fold the unneeded wheelchair and store it in the trunk. He’d find somewhere to donate it before the next stop on his trip. He thought Sam would like that.

He went back to the room a last time, ran his hand over his brother’s cheek, felt the faint and fading pulse one last time, and then leaned down and kissed his cheek. “Night Sammy,” he said tears falling from his eyes onto his brother’s too pale skin.

He grabbed the phone. He didn’t expect an answer, hadn’t even dialed the number in months, but the voicemail went through, he swallowed, “Cas, um, it’s me. I’m in a hotel in, fuck somewhere I don’t remember. But I need you to come get Sam. And it’s got to be you, I have it warded, there’s going to be reapers, I know what the bitch told Sam, they can’t have him, so you have to come get him. There’s a place, a memory, it’s um flagstaff, it’s a crappy place, but there’s a dog there, I think…” his voice broke and he fought to recompose himself, “I think he’ll be happy there.” Dean read the address off the stationary card, then hung up the phone, stared at it for a second longer, wished he could have actually talked to Cas, to tell him how sorry he was.  
Dean stood up, looked back over the still form covered haphazardly on the bed, like he’d fallen there. It was time to let him go. Dean dropped the key at the front desk, “My brother’s not feeling well,” he whispered, forcing himself to meet her eyes, “We have a family reunion to get to, but I don’t think he’s up for the drive.” He said it, cleared his throat, “sorry, I’m just a little worried about him,’ He smiled trying to recapture some of the charm he remembered having. “I’m going to drive on ahead, and he’s going to catch up later.” He wished so badly he was telling the truth. That he was just getting a head start, he would tell her anything but the truth. He was leaving his broken, lost brother to die alone in a seedy hotel room, murdered in his bed, because Dean couldn’t take care of him, couldn’t keep his hands to himself. He shook his head, trying to not let his guilt show on his face, “He’s got the do not disturb sign up, I’d really appreciate if you tell everyone to steer clear for a couple days till he gets back on his feet.”

It was easy, too easy; the receptionist was so helpful he wanted to cry all over again. In the car he let her idle, looked over to the place where his brother belonged and saw nothing but the passenger side door.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean counted the days since he’d left Sam behind. His death had doctors puzzled, finding a seemingly perfectly healthy man in his mid-thirties dead wasn’t as uncommon as it should have been, but they couldn’t figure out what had been the cause of death. They were searching for family. All they had was a decade old college id card. No cash, no credit cards, not even a suitcase. Like he’d wondered in from some point out of time and had just stopped there.  
  
Dean watched the case unravel on the news. He called Jody, asked her to take care of it for him and disappeared again.

  
It was 79 days, exactly that Dean found a bar, the beer was cold, the women hot, the men drunk and angry. He saw the knife coming toward him and closed his eyes letting the steel bite into him. He let the sharp, tearing, burning pain fade to a peaceful black. For a few moments he was floating detached from everything.

**Author's Note:**

> I want you to know, some of this stuff I didn't just pull out of thin air, there are a lot of things I didn't include simply because it was too familiar, there's a point I'd start writing things a little too close to home, so I kept it vague on purpose. I know more about this kind of disability than I want to. I had a family member in a car wreck in the 80's. That kind of thing is not easy on people that love the injured. They made the choice to take him off life support after 3 or 4 months being completely unresponsive and he didn't die. 
> 
> The family of the injured and the damaged can do serious harm to themselves and their loved ones if they don't take care of themselves. If they don't have help and support it can lead to injury or death. Mix in an alcoholic care giver, and this is literally the worst case scenario ever. This is fiction, but never forget for some people this kind of lose without death is reality.


End file.
